My hard disk crashed. Without a warning. Without pointing a finger at anyone, who could have potentially been responsible for its death.
Was it me? Was it that bitch of a maid who sneakily pockets money, assuming it goes unnoticed, who must have knocked my precious disk in a hurry? Was it my father? I don’t know. I will never know.
Because it’s dead. I’ll probably need to shell out over 25 grands to resuscitate it, and catch all those frozen memories it holds. Those precious memories of three years. A lump comes to my throat every time I force myself to list out its contents. Dear God. It’s difficult. It was indeed carelessness on my part to have not maintained another copy, but then what is the point of a 1 TB drive, if it has to give up on me randomly? I detest you. I hate you for doing that to me, because now I’ll have to prise open my head and dig out those scenes that I had frozen digitally. And I’m not sure if I can possibly do that. Or maybe I can, I underestimate myself too often.
As I type this, I can’t help but notice how eccentric I am. I cry over dead hard disks and not people.
December is here. And it’s begun on a terrible note.